Welcome to Goddamned World
by Le mot exact
Summary: Dragomir Konstantin Putyatin smiles and as he refers to the rest of the Earth in this time and place, in a thick Russian accent he whispers... "Welcome to Goddamned world."


December 3rd 1917 Leningrad

"Ey! Tam moy malen'kiy soldat! Hey! There's my little soldier!"  
"Papa!" He runs into his arms and is picked up with ease. The child, whose name is of no importance, giggles and the mother walks into the room. Father places the child onto his shoulder. Leningrad is a mess now. Many have left, the Putyatin family have decided to stay, for if they began moving, their sick little girl wouldn't survive.

"Gde ty byl Viktor!? Where have you been Viktor!?" Mother shouts, wiping off grease from the Father's cheek, spitting on the dirty apron around her waste and rubbing it on the man's face. "Poluchit' etot pistolet iz doma! Ty vedesh' sebya, kak zhivotnoye! Gde chelovek, kotorogo ya vyshla zamuzh!? Ey!? Get that gun out of the house! You're acting like an animal! Where's the man I married!? Hey!?" Mother has been hot tempered lately. It's the middle of the War. Father is meant to be shooting the baddies, but has come home to help with the farm. For, at only two years old, the young child is too small to do anything. The Father - Viktor Putyatin - frowns at this, his dark, thick eyebrows knot together as he sighs. The Mother - Zarya Putyatin - rushes out of the room, tears in her eyes, screaming: "GLUPO VOYNA! GLUPO VOYNA! STUPID WAR! STUPID WAR!". She runs into another room, in which a poorly little girl is crying for her father.

"Moy malen'kiy Dragomir. Chto stalo s etim, moy mal'chik? My little Dragomir. What has become of this, my boy?" Victor smiles softly and shakes his head. The boy begins to sob. "Glupo voyna." The next day, the father has to get back to training. He is needed in war. The boy hands the man the gun, dragging it across the freezing wooden floor.  
"Udachi papa. Good luck dad." The little Russian smiles.

"Pozabot'tes' o svoyey materi. Odnazhdy vy budete odni v etom mire , moy mal'chik. Pozabot'tes' o svoyey sestre. Bud'te teplo. Take care of your mother. One day you will be alone in this world my boy. Take care of your sister. Stay warm." And with those words Victor Putyatin walks out into the blistering wind - hand on helmet, cross in hand - and into war.

January 15th 1919 Leningrad

"Sergey Ivanov, Ivan Petrov, Kirill Tarasov, Sasha Alexandrov..." But no Viktor Putyatin. "Egor Andreev, Denis Eltsin, Ludvig Vasiliev, Lev Fedorov, Dmitri Titov..." But no Viktor Putyatin. The boy - now four years of age - grabs his mothers' dirty apron and holds it to his cheek. All of the men walk out of this tent, run to their families and scurry home in the cold. But no Father. The men flow out of the white tent, some crying, others grinning and the rest looking down to their boots or up into the Heavens. The men hold flags and rifles and bayonets. But still no Viktor Putyatin.  
The boy cries.

January 15th 1919 Paris

The seven year old French child sits with his grandfather. He has no other family.  
"Pip. Apportez-moi un peu de vin, garçon. Pip. Bring me some more wine, boy." The boy - Pip Bernadotte - stands and pours the older man some wine. His green eyes glint in the candlelight and his light caramel hair brushes against his neck. He sits back down and looks out of the window, families passing. Some crying, others laughing. Some drinking, others praying.

"Grand-père stupide. Stupid grandfather." Pip whispers into his palm, thankful for his grandfather's terrible hearing.

"Coupez vos cheveux, garçon. Il commence à faire longtemps. Cut your hair, boy. It's getting long." The old man grumbles, taking down his sixth glass of wine.

"Non, grand-père. Mes amis disent qu'ils aiment les choses comme il longtemps. No, grandfather. My friends say they like it long." The boy defends, his fingers pulling at a loose string from the bottom of his woolen jumper.

"Vous et vos amis stupides. You and your stupid friends." The grandfather spits, spilling half of his wine onto the floor. Pip stands and runs out of the door and into the snow. He groans in frustration and curses at the sky. What he doesn't know, is that almost every other person in France is doing the same.

January 15th 1935 Leningrad

At twenty, the Russian takes care of the farm. He blows his fringe out of his eye, and wipes his brow with the back of a gloved hand. Dragomir Konstantin Putyatin digs the shovel into the snow and pushes it in further with the heel of his boot.

"Uzhin, Dragomir! Dinner, Dragomir!" Zarya Putyatin shouts over the howling wind. The Russian looks behind him, to his - now old - mother and nods. He sighs and pulls his shovel back up. The path he dug through the snow into the farm has already been covered up with more of the thick, white rain, which means he has to do it all again to get back into his own home. His dark curls blow into his eyes and he brushes them back, his long fingers pulling through the thick, dark brown hair. Dragomir sighs and places the shovel onto the porch of the little wooden shack-like home, he walks inside, being careful not to tread on the carpet with his boots and cover the floor with snow. He yawns and rubs his eyes.

"Kak eto Alena, mama? How is Alyona, mother?" The man sits at the table and picks at his bread. His mother slaps his hand off of the loaf and scolds him.

"Podozhdite vsekh sest', Dragomir! Wait for veryone to sit down, Dragomir!" The Russian chuckles and apologises. His little sister limps through the door of her room, and with her mother's help, takes a seat next to her brother.

"Privet, moya dorogaya. Kak ty sebya chuvstvuyesh'? Hello there, my dear. How are you feeling?" He asks, hungrily pulling at the bread then chewing at the soft crust.

"Ne luchshe, chem pozavchera. No better than the day before yesterday." She has a wierd way of speaking, this girl.

"Yest' khleb , dorogoy. Sup budet gotov v dannyy moment. Have some bread, dear. Soup will be ready in a moment." The mother smiles, tearing a slice of bread from the loaf and placing it into the girls mouth, spreading crumbs onto the table and her apron.  
"Mat', ya ne goloden. Dayte svoy sup na Alenoy. Ona nuzhdayetsya v yego bol'she, chem ya. Mother, I am not hungry now. Give my soup to Alyona. She needs it more than I do." Dragomir smiles, getting up and pulling a cigar from his pocket. He walks outside. This is what he does once every year, on the day his father didn't come back from war. He pulls out a cigar and lights it in his favour, knowing that his father loved smoking before. Dragomir sits on the bottom stair of the viranda, placing his hand close to the ash, hoping that it won't turn off in the wind. The Russian doesn't smoke, he only does this for his father. He hopes that Viktor can see him now. The man smiles to himself and closes his eyes.

January 15th 1938 Leningrad

The men run into the house, and our Russian - now at twenty-three years old - demands an explanation.

"My zdes' dlya lyubykh zdorovykh muzhchin, v vozraste ot shestnadtsati do pyatidesyati pyati. Sovetskiy Soyuz nuzhdayetsya v vas. Adol'f Gitler ob"yavil voynu. We are here for any healthy men, between the ages of sixteen and fifty-five. The Soviet Union needs you. Adolf Hitler has declared war." One man says, all of them carrying guns on their backs, and one carrying a red flag outside of the shack, with a golden hammer and sickle, a five pointed star above it. One of the men throws a uniform to Dragomir Konstantin Putyatin and throws him outside, whispering "Eto odin budet nuzhno mnogo podgotovki. This one will need a lot of training." and chuckling.  
"V chem smysl etogo!? What is the meaning of this!?" Zarya screames as her only son is taken from her. The only thought on her mind is 'Who will look after the farm now?'. And with that, Dragomir Putyatin is gone.


End file.
